


...For Saying Things That You Can't Say Tomorrow Day

by Devilc



Category: Strike Back
Genre: Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damien didn't call or ask, just showered off the last bits of Africa, threw the essentials into a duffel, and showed up on Michael's doorstep.  He barged in as soon as the door opened. "Can't let you be alone in here, Mikey."</p>
            </blockquote>





	...For Saying Things That You Can't Say Tomorrow Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PFL (msmoat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/gifts).



> The Prompt was:
> 
> "Oh, gosh, I've fallen hard for this. I have watched series 2 and 3, and have 4 but won't be able to watch it until after I've written my own Yuletide story! The thing is, I could see them engaging in sex-for-relief, but the story would be the ramifications of that, because they are quite probably more involved than they think they are. It has been great to see their relationship develop, but I suspect it's deeper than they realize. Scott is all about casual sex, but it has been established that he doesn't fool around when it's serious...so what does that mean when it's Stonebridge? And Stonebridge...so much anger and loss already in his life, how would he deal with feelings for Scott that weren't neatly compartmentalized? Oh, there's so much to explore here!"
> 
> Sorry this isn't _exactly_ that, but the ideas I had for that involved spoilers for Season 4
> 
>  
> 
> Title and quote are from "Do I Want to Know" by the Arctic Monkeys. Though this song doesn't fit the exact situation, the emotional core of it, the broodiness of it, really spoke to me about these guys. I played it a lot when I drafted this story, and frankly, I think it's a song they'd both dig the hell out of.
> 
> Thank you to turnonmyheels for her swift turnaround and helpful commentary.
> 
> \-----  
> Strike Back is copyright its respective owners. This bit of whatiffery is a fair-use labor of love, not lucre.

> So have you got the guts?  
>  Been wondering if your heart's still open and if so I wanna know what time it shuts  
>  Simmer down and pucker up  
>  I'm sorry to interrupt. It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you  
>  I don't know if you feel the same as I do  
>  But we could be together if you wanted to 

* * *

Damien didn't call or ask, just showered off the last bits of Africa, threw the essentials into a duffel, and showed up on Michael's doorstep. He barged in as soon as the door opened. "Can't let you be alone in here, Mikey." 

Stonehead, being all British stiff upper lip, of course said nothing, but Damien could see the _relief_ in his bloodshot and miserable eyes at not having to be alone in a house filled with memories of Kerry. 

Other than getting a neighbor to collect the mail (currently stacked in mounds on the dining table) and making sure the place wasn't robbed clean, Damien figured the place looked exactly as Michael had left it -- full of signs of two lives that had abruptly stopped. Michael had buried his wife, chucked everything that might spoil out, packed his kit and headed straight to Africa, Section 20 … and him.

And now, as far as Damien could figure, Michael came home, dropped his bag next to the door, and collapsed on the sofa.

Probably sat there, head in hands, until Damien knocked on the door.

Michael hadn't really grieved yet. He had avoided it by distracting himself with the mission and boxing up the rest, marking it "danger, do not open," before sticking it on the mental shelf next to all the other boxes just like it.

With barely a glance at him, Michael shuffled back to the exact spot on the sofa that bore his butt print and sat down, and to Damien's mixed amusement and horror, cradled his head in his hands.

"What's the plan for starting over?" Damien asked, softly, but with urgency, as he took a knee next to his partner. "Clean house and chuck everything into the street? Because between you and me, I don't think that postage stamp backyard of yours is big enough for a bonfire."

That, at least, got a response in the form of a "What the fuck? Are you daft?" look.

Damien stood up, gesturing as he spoke. "When my mom found out my dad had cheated on her -- turns out I got a half-brother 'bout my age -- she threw him out and I mean she _threw_ him out, and after the police hauled him off, we _cleaned_ house. Took every thing that piece of shit owned out of our singlewide, threw it into the vacant lot next door, and fucking torched it." 

Michael's head whipped up, a look of mild surprise on his face, and Damien smiled inside because he'd take that any day over emptiness and numb grief. He shrugged, and continued, "Jo-Kate's fire was the talk of the trailer park for the next six months.

"So, what's it gonna be, Mikey?" He flopped down next to Michael, his next words cut off as he sneezed from the dust that fwoofed! up from the sofa.

Michael looked at him and, calmly ticking the points off on his fingers, said, "One, that's probably the most you've ever said to me about yourself in one go. Two, no, I don't want to have a bonfire, or just pitch it all into the street. Three --" something flickered in his dark blue eyes "you have a brother. I shudder to think."

"Half brother, Stonehead," Damien corrected. " _Half_. The last thing I heard through the grapevine was he was doing fifteen for stealing diamonds." He paused and counted on his fingers. "He's out by now, unless he did something to get himself back in or had time added on to his sentence."

Michael looked at him and said, absolutely deadpan, "If he's anything like you, those are distinct possibilities."

~oo(0)oo~

The first night passed in beer and take out, or as the Brits insisted on calling it, "take away." At some point, Damien poured Michael into the guest room bed (and manhandling his plastered ass up the stairs was no mean feat) before he crashed out on the sofa in the front room.

He didn't have to ask, and Michael didn't have to say, _nobody_ was sleeping in the master bedroom that night … maybe not even the rest of the week.

As soon as Damien got enough coffee and ibuprofen in him to chase away the most bearish part of the hangover, plus the crick in his neck from sleeping the wrong way on the sofa, he got the day rolling by tip-toeing up the stairs, bursting through the door, and giving a command shout: "Yo, Stonehenge! Time to rise, shit, shave, shower, and shine, buddy!"

When Michael made it to the kitchen table, Damien poured coffee and ibuprofen down him, and when he started looking vaguely human again, Damien launched into the second part of his plan. "Get your trainers on. We're going for a 5k run."

Michael blinked at him and muttered something about having a headache.

"Brown bottle flu? Boo-fucking-hoo," Damien said as he stood up from the table. "Stop grumbling, Stonehead, and get your running shoes on. We can't just sit around on the couch all day looking pretty."

Michael glared at him, but he clomped upstairs and came back down a few minutes later, ready to go.

As they headed down the block, Damien singing a cadence softly under his breath, it occurred to him that for the last 18 or so hours he'd stepped up and "gotten in touch with his inner Stonebridge."

It felt a little like Africa. Michael had _needed_ him in that Tuareg camp, the way he needed him now. And yeah, while on the one hand, it felt a bit strange to be wearing the ~~Daddy~~ Mikey Pants, for Michael, Damien could do anything.

Frankly, _somebody_ needed to do it, and nobody the fuck else at Section 20 could do it, not without it becoming official and paperwork in the dossier, because that's how they rolled.

Besides, if he didn't catch Michael now, who the fuck would be left to pick _him_ up the next time he stumbled?

Michael had his back, so he had Michael's back. 

Period.

~oo(0)oo~

Of course, Damien undid a lot of the good the run had done him by lighting up as soon they got back, his first in a day. Probably the endorphins from the run triggering the itch, just like after a good lay. He smoked a lot less back in the real world than on missions. Less stress.

Then again, as he formed a smoke-ring and watched it dissipate into the blue sky, this run hadn't been so much about physical health as it was about mental health and sweating out the last of their hangovers.

"You get first crack at the showers, Stinkbridge," he called through the open doorway. "And when I get done with mine, we rustle up some _real_ food."

Take out was all well and good for a treat or in an emergency, but Damien knew that it was important for both of them to have real food, something made by hand in your own kitchen, and not just because it was healthier, but because of the discipline of making it.

Through the doorway, Michael replied, teasingly, "Look at you, all in command. Next thing, you'll be barking orders."

"My bite's worse than my bark," Damien called back, stubbing out his cigarette. 

~oo(0)oo~

Dinner was simple: cube steak (which Michael called "minute steak") dusted with flour and pepper and fried up in butter, mac and cheese (which Michael called "cheesy pasta") and brussels sprouts (the one food that he and Michael had the same name for). Michael dipped those in vinaigrette dressing tarted up with Coleman's hot mustard before he threw them in the broiler.

Not the sort of diets they normally ate to keep themselves in shape for the field, but comfort food like Damien remembered his mother making. (Only in their case, it was blanched greens, not brussels sprouts, served with a generous dash of vinegar, Tabasco sauce, and salt.) 

Oh, and beer, of course. But not enough this time to leave them legless.

Damien didn't know if it was the food or the beer, or both, but whatever it was, it did the trick. For the first time in months Michael looked vaguely contented.

It wasn't much, but Damien would take what he could get. 

~oo(0)oo~

After dinner (which Michael insisted on calling "meat tea"), Damien found himself looking at some of the family photos in stairwell. There were mostly of Kerry and her family, of Kerry and Michael together, but one separate frame held the only four that were of Michael with people other than Kerry. 

The first of them, a bit creased and battered, showed a couple, probably high school sweethearts, given how young they looked, and a baby, who, despite his big, round, chubby head, and the pacifier in his mouth was recognizably Michael. The man held Michael in his arms and wore cammies, the young woman smiled up at both of them. Damien figured it for a family photo, probably taken not long before Michael's father got shipped off to and then killed in the Falklands. Probably the only photo Michael had of his family, and a damn miracle he still had it, given how turbulent life in foster homes could be.

The next photo showed Michael, looking so young he must have been fresh out of boot camp, in his Marine dress uniform, his arm slung around a slightly shorter older gentleman with medium brown hair going to gray. Both of them wore looks of immense pride on their faces.

The photo after that featured Michael in cammies with a corporal's stripes, muddy as all hell, looking tired but happy, next to a black haired Special Air Service sergeant giving a thumbs up sign. He was almost as muddy as Michael, and just as tired and happy looking. Damien figured it had been taken during a training exercise, one that the two of them successfully completed.

The final photo was a candid of Michael in his Special Boat Service cap and badge, arm in arm with the same dark haired sergeant from the SAS, taken at a pub or a drink up, the two of them howling with laughter. 

"Hey, Mikey," he called down the stairwell, "get your ass up off the couch and answer some questions for me."

"You're too charming," Michael called back, but a moment later, Damien heard him coming. "Yeah?"

"I make these two for your folks," Damien said, indicating the first picture. 

Michael's eyes tightened a bit as he answered, "Yes."

"You got your mom's nose. So, who are the two guys?"

A grin split Michael's face. He leaned in and pointed to the picture of him and the older man. "That's Mr. Bodie."

"One of your foster parents?"

"Nope." Michael laughed and shook his head. "Next door neighbor to the last family I lived with. I was this angry punk of a kid, and he --"

"Took you under his wing?" 

"He kicked my ass first and then he took me under his wing." Michael's voice positively glowed with love. "He pulled pulled some strings once, kept me out of a reform school. Told me I had potential and I was going to goddamn live up to it."

"Pulled some strings?" Damien smiled at Michael, "What'd you do, toilet paper a house? Put milk in the cup before the tea?" 

"Bit more that that," Michael's expression turned wry. "Breaking and entering."

Damien nodded. "Yeah, you'd need a connection to get out of that one."

"Oh, he was connected, alright." Michael's eyes bored into his, "He and his _partner_ , Doyle -- turns out before doing private investigations, they'd worked for a division of the MI-5 called the CI-5, special criminal investigations --" 

Damien chuckled and clapped Michael on the shoulder, because yeah, talk about the wrong guys to live next to if you were going to be a teenaged hooligan.

Michael slung an arm around him -- a bit awkward given their height differences on the stairs, but Damien welcomed the contact, because Michael didn't touch somebody that way unless he meant it, and also, he hadn't realized that _he_ wanted to be touched. "Doyle wanted to write me off at first, but Bodie really _did_ for me, did for me when nobody else gave a damn. Turns out before the CI-5 -- which the MI-5 still publicly denies, by the way -- he was a sergeant in the SAS. He made me a special project of his," Michael laughed at his memories. "I cleaned up my act, and he talked me into signing up as a Marine, took me down to the recruiters, and after I signed up, he told me that he had a 50 pound note riding on a bet with Doyle that I'd wash out --"

"This Doyle sounds a real charmer," Damien said sourly.

"He's actually a little like you," Michael replied, then continued, "Well, when I heard that, I knew I had to get through boot. Bodie had prepared me pretty good for it, but I knew if I washed out …" His voice trailed off.

"Yeah, I get it," Damien said. "If he's half the man he looks like in that picture, he'd have that 50 out of your hide."

Michael nodded at that. "And then some. Bodie tried to get Doyle to do a 100 pound bet on the SAS, but Doyle said he'd like to keep his money this time." Michael's face glowed practically incandescent with pride. "This," he shifted to better indicate the other man, "is Nick Poole." The warmth with which Michael said that name was different than the tone used for Bodie and it piqued Damien's attention. "I met him in the SAS -- he was one of the best training instructors I ever had -- he was the one that kicked my ass in to trying out for the SBS." He paused before adding, "He's also the guy who recommended me for Section 20."

"What's he up to? Still in the SAS?" It wasn't unknown for the MI-5 and the MI-6 to make use of SAS and SBS squads to carry out missions, but ….

Michael shook his head. "Figuratively speaking he works down the hall from us. He's a 'minder'."

Damien had heard mention of the "minders" who worked for the Special Intelligence Section of the MI-6. Usually in hushed tones. Wow. Mikey knew a straight up spy. "So, basically, he's James Bond? No fucking shit?"

"No fucking shit."

Damien clapped Michael on the back. "You've got some interesting friends here, Stonehead."

Michael grinned. "Yeah, and then there's you."

"Speaking of which, I am terribly offended that there is no picture of you and me on your wall."

He expected Michael to come back with some snarky rejoinder but, what he got was, "We'll have to get one taken."

"Admittedly, we've been a little busy," Damien said, "saving the world and all that."

Michael smiled at him and held his hand up, thumb and index fingers wide apart, "Just a little." He hung there for a moment, like he wanted to say more, do something more, but then something shuttered over the light in his eyes. Without a word he turned and headed back down the stairs.

Damien studied the pictures for another few moments, wondering how hard would it be to track these men down and talk to them, perhaps even arrange a visit.

~oo(0)oo~

During Damien's second week there, a soft tapping came at the door in the middle of the night, causing him to come instantly awake. "Damien … Damien …" Michael called in a hushed and hesitant voice.

He switched on the bedside lamp and scrubbed his eyes against the brightness, and at 40 watts, it wasn't really all that bright, as he said, "Yeah, what's up?"

Michael opened the door, expression haggard. "I can't sleep."

 _Fuck_. When they'd decided to call it lights out and Damien started to make up the sofa, (because crashing on a couch at Michael's house _still_ beat bachelor enlisted quarters or a furnished studio apartment by a country mile) Michael said there was no need, the house had two bedrooms. Damien asked, "Are you sure?" and Michael nodded.

Damien slid over and flipped back the covers, patting the mattress next to him. "In you come." The two of them in a standard size bed wouldn't leave a whole lot of room, but right now he knew that hitting the sofa and leaving Michael alone in the dark was the wrong move. 

Michael hesitated for a heartbeat and then climbed in, almost gingerly. Damien rolled over, hauled the covers back up and turned out the light.

It wasn't the first time they'd slept together, only, as it took Damien's body about 0.5 seconds to realize, it was one thing to crash out back to back in the field with all your gear on while somebody else kept watch, and something else entirely when the both of you were wearing only boxers and wifebeaters and had the comforts of a real bed.

For one thing, there was a lot more body heat. Also, the ground also didn't transfer every single motion.

There was also the sound of breathing. In the field, no doubt they could hear each other breathing, but they tuned that out, it was a sound that didn't matter. Here, with no need to be wary, it seemed to Damien like there was nothing else to hear.

Finally there was the smell. It wasn't like the two of them weren't plenty ripe after a day in the field and didn't have to actively work at times to tune out their respective stenches as they strained to catch other odors, scents that could mean life or death. But now, Damien got a nose full of Michael with every breath, and that, combined with the warmth of his body and the sound and feel of him breathing in and out … it went straight to his dick.

Despite the lack of available and willing women, Damien's deployments had been anything but sexless. Despite DADT, there'd been more than one foxhole fuck buddy, including John Porter, but Damien had one iron-clad rule: no married men.

Of course the little voice in the back of his head chose this moment to pipe up and remind him that Michael wasn't married anymore.

His dick, already hard, positively _throbbed_ in response.

As far as Damien could tell, Stonebridge, that bastard, had dropped straight into the land of nod.

It was going to be a very long rest of the night.

~oo(0)oo~

By Damien's estimation he fell asleep somewhere around 4am. For most people, that was when they couldn't fall asleep -- The Hour of the Wolf. He figured it was appropriate since he'd always been a contrary sort of person. 

Later, Michael climbed out of bed, waking him, and Damien cracked an eye, blearily determined it was a little past dawn, and shifted, trying to get back to sleep. Nothing doing. For some reason his mind skipped over _Star Trek_ and ended up on _Babylon 5_ , Ivanova's voice in his head, describing the The Hour of the Wolf as that time when "You can't sleep, and all you can see is the troubles and the problems and the ways your life should have gone, but didn't. All you can hear is the sound of your own heart."

Well, Damien couldn't sleep, but for entirely different reasons. He wondered if there was such thing as The Hour of the Cock. You can't sleep, because all you can see is the positions and the possibilities and all the ways you could have mind-blowing sex. All you can feel is the throbbing of your dick. He smiled at himself for getting into such a fucked up situation and forced himself to count to 60 before he rolled on his back. He waited another agonizing minute or two and figured that the chances of Michael coming back to bed were practically nil, so he reached into his boxers and took his shaft in hand.

He didn't bother to try and imagine anybody except Michael blowing him -- ruthlessly efficient and utterly methodical, leaving no millimeter of Damien's rock hard erection unexplored -- because who was he kidding? He shot two weeks worth of backlog, his dick bucking and jetting, and he lost count after the third big surge shook his body. When it ended he felt drained down to the toes. He stripped off his come-drenched shirt, used it to wipe the mess off his hands, pitched it on the floor, rolled, and fell into a blackout sleep.

Stonebrain woke him about two hours later by opening up the blinds, and _of course_ the sunlight stabbed Damien straight in the eyes.

He cried out in surprise as much as discomfort, clapping his right hand over his eyes and using his left to flip Michael the bird. (If nothing else, special forces training taught a man to multitask.)

"Time to rise, shit, shave, shower, and shine!" Michael sounded so ruthlessly upbeat and chipper that for a half a second Damien wanted to ask him for a line of whatever he'd just snorted.

Stonehenge didn't say anything about the smell in the room. Then again, it was just one of the realities of life for enlisted men, you learned early on that you and your fellows had very little time or space for taking care of basic needs, so you pretended that you didn't see, hear, or smell it. Hell, Damien figured the only way a soldier, sailor, or marine got out of basic without smelling or hearing another guy jacking off was if she was a woman … and probably not even then. 

~oo(0)oo~

At least the water in the shower was hot and for all of his limey love of tea, Michael knew how to make a proper cup of midnight-in-a-mineshaft coffee.

On his way back upstairs, Damien paused at the pictures of Michael with Bodie and Nick. He really should see if Richmond could scare up their contact information, because maybe they had some ideas about what to do with Michael. He scrubbed at his tired eyes and in the next instant, Nick and Bodie's smiles both seemed to be for _him_ , and even though he had no idea what their voices sounded like, he could hear them say, "He's going to have to work through this on his own, on his own terms. You can't do it for him. You can only point him in the right direction."

Damien chuckled ruefully and replied, "This is Stonehead we're talking about, so more than once." _And hope that he eventually gets there_.

~oo(0)oo~

That evening Damien stopped on the stairs and studied the pictures for the second time that day. Something about the pictures of Michael and Nick made his spider-sense tingle, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why. 

It had been a long day. Mid-morning Michael decided that he wanted to sort through some of Kerry's things and see what he could donate to the local women's shelter. 

If a person had looked but not _seen_ , they might have thought that Kerry was a stranger to Michael, or thought him a cold and unfeeling man. Damien knew Michael, and there was no way to avoid seeing his best friend's epic struggle to maintain the necessary detachment, to keep an iron grip on his emotions. A few times -- blink and you'd miss it -- Damien could see the tightness at the edge of Michael's eyes and mouth, see a hint of his brow beginning to furrow, but then he'd clamp down hard. Compartmentalize it. Control it.

Damien _got_ that. He hadn't grown up on foster homes and group homes the way that Michael had, but being piss-poor on the wrong side of Detroit couldn't have been that much different. Nobody had the extra time or energy for your grief once the immediate crisis was over. Also, once you got out of grade school, crying over anything but a serious injury? Talk about painting a target on yourself. Pack it up, put it aside, move forward.

Of course, the stuff that got packed up always found a way to get out. If it didn't explode, it just leaked out around the edges. Nothing a little duct tape and Spackle couldn't handle, right? Drinking, drugs, fucking … throwing yourself into _something_ full-tilt: job, hobby, sports. (And if somebody was a real overachiever, they some how managed to do all of it.) Sometimes, it got a person through, like a low-rent version of occupational therapy. Just as often it delayed, or even help set up an epic self-destruct. And damn if he didn't know all about that.

Unbidden, a grim laugh bubbled up out of Damien's throat. How the ever loving fuck could he even get Michael pointed in the right direction and keep him pointed that way when he couldn't even keep himself pointed the right way? Because … shit, if it hadn't been for Section 20 and Michael, but especially Michael, a few years back, he would be dead. Murdered and pitched into the bay.

"What's so funny?"

Damien jolted at the sound of Michael's voice. He'd been so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn't heard the sound of Michael climbing the stairs. He felt his mouth open and shut soundlessly several times as things to say tripped over themselves on the way out. In the the end, he turned back to the pictures on the wall and his eyes darted from the pictures of Michael and Nick to Michael and Bodie. Reaching out his index finger he stroked the glass over it as Michael climbed on the stair, standing behind him, his nearness causing adrenaline tremors to surge through Damien's body. "Just thinking," he looked over his shoulder, "what my life would be like if you and 20 hadn't come along." He turned to face Michael and his voice rasped with emotion as he spoke, "You saved me."

 _Oh shit._ All the stuff he had worked so hard to keep boxed up? It was starting to come out. Damien could feel it surging, could feel it on the brink of exploding out.

He saw the same thing mirrored on Michael's face, the struggle to control, compartmentalize, channel. To not deal with … each other.

So, when Michael's hands came up, cupping his face as a prelude to a hard, _hungry_ kiss, it felt on the one hand, perfectly logical (sex was always Damien's favorite distraction), and on the other, a shock. Not from a guy kissing him, but because it wasn't like Michael to be so forward.

When they broke, Damien could see it starting: Michael's logical prim and proper self finding reasons to stop this, to apologize, to have yet _another_ thing to wall off and never deal with.

Nope. Over Damien's dead body. "Fuck yeah!" he gasped as he pulled Michael back in and kissed him with everything he could muster to make Stonehead the Stubborn understand. "You are not," he gritted out in between kisses as he grabbed Michael's shirt and started manhandling him up the stairs, "going to prick tease me, you limey bastard." Just before the top, manhandling became push-me, pull-you, and they banged their way down the hall before crashing through the door into the guest room.

Damien couldn't stop the near hysterical laughter that spilled out as Michael got tangled up in his shirt and just tore it off in the end. He wasn't much better, snickering almost dementedly as he wrestled his own shirt, because his hands had suddenly turned to all thumbs, but at least he got it off without reducing it to a rag. Michael's gaze seared into him and their eyes locked as in unison they stripped off their boxers and socks.

The sniggers cut off when Michael stalked over to the bed, pushed him back on it, then climbed on top, the expression on his face beyond intense, and in that instance, Damien knew. He could give this to Michael, let him take the lead and call shots. Well, some of the shots. He still had to keep Michael pointed the right way. And though Michael had a metric fuckload of steam to blow off, that didn't mean that Damien wouldn't give as good as he got. And, frankly, Damien figured that right now, what Michael wanted could only be gotten from grappling with another guy.

It began as almost frantic rutting up against each other as their mouths clashed, tongues tangling, whisker burn only adding to the fire. The friction of Michael's length chafing against his down _there_ was going to send Damien over the edge, but he wanted _more_ \-- both giving and getting.

"Slow down, buddy," he gasped, voice little more than a ragged thread of air given shape by lips and tongue.

"How's that, mate?" Michael replied, just as strained and on edge. He did not stop the slip-slide of his hips against Damien's pelvis.

"Want to --" so close, so close, Damien could feel the static gathering in his loins, getting ready to send the starburst up his spine, but he dug in, forced the words out, "blow you."

Michael stopped, body going utterly still he lifted his head up, eyes asking the question. "Are you _sure_?" Damien nodded his answer. Michael shifted off and back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. _The sort of guy who likes to watch the show,_ Damien thought as he scrambled off the bed and settled himself in the V of Michael's legs.

The smell was one hundred percent Michael: musk and salt and a clean, flinty _something_ that Damien decided was unique to the man.

He was big, but not disproportionately so, and uncut which, Damien knew he would be, but it was one thing to see it, and another to have a little niggling stab of memories of John Porter … and yet, Damien smiled wickedly as he remembered learning just what kinds of fun that extra little sleeve of skin could provide.

Damien reached out, cupping Michael's sack with his off hand, vibing on the crispness of the hairs against his fingers, the heft of it, the way that it was just a fraction cooler than the rest of Michael's body. He took the loose bit of skin near the crown between the thumb and index finger of his other hand and slid it rapidly up and down a few times, making Michael twitch and gasp as his cock gave a fresh spurt of precome. Damien locked his eyes with Michael's blue-hot gaze and made a show of extending his tongue, and delicately, _obscenely_ danced it across the tip of his partner's prick, dabbing, darting, teasing.

Michael almost languidly closed his eyes and let out a groan that came from the core of his being.

Damien drew his tongue back in and let salt-bitter sharpness fill his mouth before he dived back in, taking Michael's cock as deep as he could on the first pass, Michael's clenched, bitten off "Jesus!" telling him what he needed to know.

He used his hand to work the bottom of the shaft while working his mouth up and down, swirling his tongue, slurping, relishing the way he could feel it respond to his ministrations. It was good for Damien, too, the taste, the scent, the feel, the _sounds_ Michael made, the way his hands touched in return, fingers stroking through Damien's hair, caressing his head -- careful, oh so careful not to grip and clench -- one way or another all of it ended up at Damien's cock, which throbbed in time to his racing heart, demanding satisfaction, but no, not yet. This? This right now, was all about Michael and Damien's dick could just wait its turn.

"Damien! Damien!" Michael's voice jumped an octave and his right hand gripped and tugged, trying to warn, but Damien knocked it away. Yeah, it would be hot to see Michael shoot, but Damien had other plans. He glanced up, told Michael with a look what he intended to do, saw the _ohmygod_ register just a split second before Michael's hips bucked of their own accord and the first hot blast gushed across his palate.

Try as he might, Damien couldn't contain all of Michael's four massive shots (his mouth was big, but not that big). With a long exhale, Michael flopped back on the bed, and Damien tenderly licked him through the last aftershocks before standing and making a show of wiping the come that dribbled down his chin with his index finger and licking it clean.

"You dirty bastard," Michael whispered, laughing, ear to ear grin plastered across his face.

"And lucky for you, you don't have to deflate me when you're done."

"Oh, I can see something of yours that needs a bit of deflating -- besides your ego, that is."

"I like my ego the way it is. You're just jealous that it's not as big as yours," Damien said as he climbed back on the bed and sat against the headboard, knees bent, legs spread. There was more than one way to get a good view of the action, and this was Damien's favorite, in part because it meant his partner never had sore knees after.

Michael made him accidentally bang his head against the wall more than once, he was that good. Plus, the downright smug expression on his face as he made Damien swear like a sailor was an added hotness that Damien hadn't counted on. The things he did with his tongue, and the way he worked his thumb in firm, smooth strokes along the taint, as Damien started the final clench … he saw stars when he came. Frankly, Michael couldn't have owned him more unless he fucked him and … for him, Damien would -- well, definitely maybe he would let him.

When he got his brains back enough to speak, Damien said, "Certainly not your first time at the rodeo."

Michael gave him one of his patented "Are you daft, or just dim?" looks. "Yours neither."

Damien shrugged. "Well, it wasn't like I was expecting you to be a virgin --"

"But you'd hoped?" Michael leaned in, leering.

There was no point in lying. "A boy can dream."

Michael chuckled. "Royal Marine. Special _Boat_ Service. Do I need to spell it out for you?"

"Solid copy -- 'rum, sodomy, and the lash.'"

"No rum." Michael shook his head.

"What?!" Damien sat bolt upright.

Michael snorted. "Seriously, mate. They stopped that back in, oh, " his eyes glanced ceilingward as he searched for the memory, "1970 or thereabouts." A wicked twinkle entered his eye. "No lash, either."

"I'm not a big fan of the lash," Damien said as he scooted down to lie flat. He patted the bed. When Michael stretched out next to him, he continued, "So, did it ever occur to you that I might be --"

"Not for an instant."

Damien smiled. "You make it sound like I'm a slut."

Michael rolled and cocked his head in one hand, with his other, he idly traced a finger along Damien's collar bone. "The truth is a defense to libel," he said in a tone so serious Damien knew he wasn't.

Damien mock glowered at him. "'S'not libel. It's slander."

"Whatever."

"So … what now?" The $64,000 question.

The loopy, lazy satisfaction fled Michael's face, replaced by something serious and almost heartbreakingly fragile. "I know better than to ask for any undying declarations, Damien."

 _Good, because I can't give you any beyond the one I'm about to give now._ "I've got your back, Mikey. Always. Even when I know you're being bullheaded and wrong. Bros before brass."

Michael's lips quirked. "Same here." He took a quick breath. "Back when … " his voice trailed off and his eyes grew distant at memories. Finally he said, "Nick and I had an understanding back when --" His eyes bored into Damien's, "He was the _only_ guy."

Damien nodded. "I can do that." 

"Good." Michael visibly relaxed and Damien felt as if a 50 pound sack he didn't even know he was carrying had been lifted away.

The minutes drifted by, Damien studying the plaster overhead as Michael idly trailed a finger along his collar bone and shoulder. Finally, Damien spoke, voice low and soft. "I think we should take a trip."

"Mmmn? Where to?" Michael all but purred.

"I think we should use our leave to go see Nick and then Bodie."

"And Doyle," Michael added. "It's Bodie _and_ Doyle. Always. Joined at the hip and brain, those two."

Damien rolled to face him. "And after that, we should do something else. Go someplace else. We've got a lot of leave." _And Section 20 owes you, big time._

"I've never been to the States," Michael said, the faintest hint of a blush staining his cheeks. "I've traveled around the world, but I've never been to the US."

"We can do that. Any place in particular?" 

Michael pursed his lips in thought. "The Pacific Coast. California."

Even no-smoking California couldn't stop Damien's grin. "We can do that."

"And …" a dreamy light filled Michael's eyes, "I'd like for it to be a motorcycle trip."

Damien couldn't contain the laugh of joy that burst forth. "Even better, Mikey. Even better." He cupped Michael's head, pulling him close. "You, me, and the open road? It's the stuff dreams are made of."

**Author's Note:**

> That reference to 15 years for stealing diamonds is a hat-tip to Banshee, and this image of both casts (http://twicsy.com/i/55HKXd) only fuels my head-canon that "Lucas Hood" is Damien Scott's brother.
> 
> I'm not a Pros fan, but when I read that Bodie's back story includes SAS? It all fell into place.
> 
> Nick Poole is a canonically gay former SAS sgt. and MI-6 agent from Greg Rucka's _Queen and Country_ comics series. Someday I hope to write a proper crossover between the two.


End file.
